


Bragging Rights

by Ilickrocks



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Matt's poor bluffing skills, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Random Stories, Suicide (mentioned), Supernatural Elements, TW: Domestic Violence, Unhappy Ending, death (mentioned) - Freeform, i blame the alcohol and boredom, originally posted on ff.net
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-07-18 02:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16108982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilickrocks/pseuds/Ilickrocks
Summary: Collection of random stories and drabbles.





	1. Bragging Rights

  Matt could hear the laughter long before he reached the office and it just increased as he made his way up the narrow stairwell. In his mind, he could picture Karen and Foggy huddled together at her desk, hunched over and looking at  _something_  while whispering and snickering and giggling with each other. That giggling came to an end when he turned the door knob, only to be replaced by frantic hissing from both parties along the lines of "He's here—shhh!—shuddupshuddupshuddup—no, you shut up!"

  "Matt!" Foggy cried brightly, doing a terrible job of hiding the laughter in his voice. "How you doing this morning?"

  Pursing his mouth, "Not as well as you two, apparently," Matt adjusted his glasses. "Do I want to know what was so funny?" He paused and gave a few discreet sniffs, "Are you… Are you reading Cosmo…?"

  "How—?"

  He sat on the edge of Karen's desk and tapped the magazine. "All the perfume inserts and the glue they use. Did they put some really interesting sex tips in there this time?"

  "Not quite…Karen, you tell 'im."

  Karen squeaked when Foggy poked her. "Me? You're the one who bought it!" Another squeak slipped out of her. "Fine. Foggy spotted that Cosmo has a new reader poll and he just  _had_  to buy a copy…" Matt could hear how her smile increased with every word.

  "I'm almost afraid to ask…"

  "'Cosmo's First Annual NYC's Sexiest Superheroes!'" A normal blind man could picture the broad shit-eating grin on Foggy's face. "And guess who's in it?!"

  "Oh no…"

  "Oh yes! They got pictures and everything—yours aren't as good as Stark's, so maybe you can go in and pose for them next year…"

  Karen ignored the exasperated noise that escaped Matt and tossed her two cents in. "Oh, we could do the photo shoot ourselves! But it would have to be in your first outfit, Matt."

  "The urban ninja outfit? Really?"

  Karen's vigorous nod towards Foggy was easy to pick up on. "Trust me…"

  "Well…ok…I'll trust your opinion on what ladies find hot. I guess I can start scouting for locations…"

  "I really don't think this is nec—"

  "Shut up, Matt! Karen and I are just looking out for your wellbeing, and we're gonna be damn sure you get bragging rights next year!"

  "And what makes you think I won't get them this year…?" sighed Matt.

  "You've got some pretty good competition here, Matt…" Karen's fingers slid across the glossy pages as she flipped through them. "They have your friend Clint in here…who is 'sure to hit ALL the right spots…'"

  "…What?"

  "Tagline, buddy. They came up with taglines for everybody." A light scraping noise accompanied Foggy dragging the magazine in front of him. "Let's see… 'Black Panther: We would like to make this big cat purr…' I can't believe I just said that." He flipped a few pages. "'Thor: We wouldn't mind if he dropped the hammer on us.' Oh my god." Another page. "'Quicksilver: Let's hope there are a few things he does slow…' Really?" He flipped back a number of pages. "'Spiderman: Wonder what kind of swinger he really is?' What kind of deprived soul comes up with these things?" Foggy hummed to himself as he flipped through a few more pages, "Now where is it…? Ah, here it is! Daredevil… Wanna know what it says?"

  Matt removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Not really…" He didn't know why he even bothered to say "no"—he'd lost this battle the moment he got out of bed.

  Karen's phone buzzing prevented Foggy from answering and the blonde immediately checked her text. "That was Claire. She says 'yes' and that she voted for you."

  Matt's brow furrowed. "Yes? Yes what?"

  Foggy snickered. "'Daredevil: We know he's a devil in the streets, but is he a devil in the sheets?'"

  "Oh my god…" Matt's face fell into his hand as Foggy's laughter filled the office.

  Leaning across the desk, Karen patted Matt's knee. "Don't worry—I'll vote you." She was laughing too.

  "Pft!" Foggy snorted. "That's because you're biased!"

  "Well…yeah! He does sign my paychecks!"

  Matt groaned and pushed himself off Karen's desk. "I'm not listening to this anymore," he muttered as he headed into his office.

  "Hey, Matt!" Foggy called after him. "Would you get mad if I voted for Captain America?"


	2. Chapter 2  Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a child, Matt always heard “Be careful of the Murdock boys—they got the devil in ‘em!” Matt finds out just how wrong they were… (Originally posted to FF.net, minor editing)

     Matt isn’t entirely sure what has just happened.  He can recall fighting alongside the Black Widow, taking on a swarm of HYDRA agents, the two of them running, and then...and then…something.  Maybe.  He’s not sure, but he knows he’s missing something.  What he definitely can’t recall is how he got back to New York, back to a small Hell’s Kitchen park he can remember from his childhood, before everything went dark.  He can’t recall changing into a pair of his favorite jeans and one of his more comfortable shirts, or why he is completely barefoot.  And Matt definitely can’t recall why all of his senses feel like they’ve been numbed and why he can fucking see.

     “I figured it was time we met.”

     Matt jumps at the new voice behind him, and spins on his heels and starts to go down into a defensive crouch, only to freeze when he lays eyes on what is probably one of the most painfully beautiful beings he’s ever encountered, and his mind simply can’t truly comprehend what he’s seeing, but he’s quite sure people aren’t supposed to glow.

     “Who the hell are you?” he snaps.  Matt knows he’s being rude, and he really can’t make himself care—there’s some weird shit going on and he wants to know why.  “And why am I here?”

     “I have many names, but you can call me Askrasiel.”  And there’s that strange voice again.  It has an other-worldly quality to it, as if multiple individuals, both male and female, are speaking in unison.

     “That doesn’t really help me.”

     Askrasiel gives a weary sigh.  “Oh, to be a foot note in those ancient history texts of yours…”  The glowing being backs up a few steps and lowers itself onto a swing.  “But, who am I?  I’ve been with you since the accident.  I’m that fire that curls in your belly when you sense somebody is getting screwed over.  I’m the fury that burns through you when you hunt down the cruel and unjust.  I’m that simmering satisfaction once justice has been meted out.”  During Askrasiel’s little speech, Matt can feel his heart constricting tighter and tighter, until it hurts to breathe.  _Oh, god, no…  Is this—_   Before Matt can voice his fears, Askrasiel’s head cocks,  “No, Matthew.  I’m not that inner demon you’ve been so afraid of.  And if you’re looking for a pronoun, ‘he’ will do just fine…  Though I don’t know why it should matter, angels don’t exactly follow the gender system you mortals have insisted on setting up…”

     “Angels??  You’re- You’re an angel??!”  Matt needs to sit, now, before he crashes, and he ends up dropping onto the swing next to Askrasiel.  To keep from tipping over, his hands tighten painfully around the chains.  “But, I was always told—”

     “Your grandmother always had some interesting ideas, but I have no idea where she got that one,” the angel happily interrupts.  “No devil in this particular Murdock boy—quite the opposite really!  But think about it, Matthew:  if you truly had a devil residing inside of you, you’d take pleasure in sowing chaos and witnessing injustice.”

     Matt’s tongue darts out to nervously wet his lips, and the chains creak slightly as he flexes his grip on them.  “…But I hurt people.  Granted, they’re not good people, but I still hurt them, badly.  And I shouldn’t take pleasure in that!”

     The angel's ever-shifting face fixes Matt with a dry look.  “Do you seriously think the heavenly host takes on the forces of hell with nothing more than a few verses of Kumbaya, glitter, and maybe a few unicorns?  Not all angels are those harmless looking cherubs that Raphael doodled all over that little chapel of his—think about the archangel Michael.  And while those billy clubs of yours don’t quite measure up to a flaming sword, I can definitely appreciate it when you make sure a criminal can’t eat solid food for a few months, or prevent them from holding another gun, or make them think twice before they consider hurting another person.”

     Matt can think of nothing to say to that, so he just nods.  “You said you’ve been with me since the accident…  Does that make you my guardian angel?  Are you the reason my senses are the way they are?  And why haven’t we met before now?”

     “Your senses?  No.  That’s all on whatever those chemicals were, though the amount you were exposed to should have killed you, or at the very least, left you brain-damaged.  I was passing through, and I didn’t find it very fair that a child who’d just performed a rather selfless act could possibly have his life cut short, so I…sort of…intervened…  The Boss,” Askrasiel’s long-fingered hand motions sky-ward, “insisted that, since I acted a bit outside my job description, I was to stay with you for the remainder of your life.”  The guilt must be obvious on Matt’s face, because the angel reaches out and lays a gentle hand on the young man’s hunched shoulder—the thrill that contact brings to Matt’s body is indescribable—and gives him a reassuring smile.  “Don’t feel bad about it.  What’s a human lifespan to something that’s been around since even before the existence of time itself?  And I rather enjoy being back in the trenches, so to speak.  And the irony of how you dress up is also quite delightful—I suspect Michael is a bit jealous…

     “As for our lack of contact?  You come close when you meditate.  Why do you think you’re able to heal so much quicker than other mortals?  But, I’m afraid that’s as close you’ll get, unless there are some special circumstances…”

     Matt perked at this—if he could figure out how, maybe he could—

     “I’ll be rather disappointed if you put yourself into situations that would lead to us having another chat, Matthew” the angel chastised, leading to Matt to duck his head.  “I’d be happy if we never speak again for another 5 decades or so.  Just know that you do not have to be afraid of that righteous fury that simmers inside of you.  Take a moment, collect your thoughts, and weigh your options—I will not steer you wrong.”

     The pair fall silent for a few minutes, the only noise a rhythmic metallic squeaking as Askrasiel gently rocks himself back and forth on his swing.  Matt’s mind is oddly blank, despite the revelation of having his own personal guardian angel—he’s going to need time to process this.  In the meantime, he takes advantage of his fully functional eyes and slowly scans his surroundings.  He spends a large amount of time just staring at the grass—he’s forgotten green and he wants to sear the image into his brain before everything is sure to turn back to flame again.  Other colors get committed to memory:  the bright orange of a traffic cone, the white of a near-by pick-nick table, the deep purple of an iris.  Then he sends his eyes up, towards something he’s wanted to see for almost 20 years, and his vision starts to go blurry.  Matt forces himself to look away from the sky and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, forcing the tears away.  Once he feels like he’s back under control, Matt turns back to face Askrasiel, wanting to know what exactly he’s missing.

     “You still haven’t told me what I’m doing here.”

     The shining figure next to Matt tilts its head, and a fine eyebrow arcs up.  “Because, Matthew, you have a choice to make.”

  
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

 

     “—pulse!  We got a pulse!”

     Foggy can hear Dr. Cho’s voice cut across the chaos in the OR beyond the swinging doors, and all strength bleeds out of his legs.  He manages to catch himself on an adjacent wall and sinks to the floor, not even thinking of holding back the tears of relief running down his face.  _Matt’s alive.  Matt is alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Yes, I just put Matt through a Near-Death Experience.
> 
> Askrasiel is another name for Raguel, who, according to Google and Judaic traditions, is the archangel of justice, vengeance, fairness, and harmony. Raguel isn’t as well-known in Christian lore as other archangels, like Michael, Raphael, or Gabriel, which is why Matt doesn’t really recognize the name. Askrasiel is supposed to help people overcome mistreatment, bring order out of chaos, and help bring an end to the injustices of neglected and oppressed people. He is most often shown holding a judge’s gavel. What better angel for Matt to cohabit with? (While writing Askrasiel, I kept picturing Metatron from “Dogma”, but I doubt I could ever bring the same dry wit and sarcasm Alan Rickman brought to that role, nevermind I left Askrasiel’s appearance deliberately vague—angels don’t exactly have a set form.)
> 
> Again, feedback is welcome!


	3. Chapter 3  Links

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daredevil tries to stop the Punisher. Things goes as well as expected… Inspired by the recent Daredevil Season 2 Character Artwork promos. (You know the one... The one that made us kinky ones happy.) (Originally posted on FF.net before S2 was released)

       Matt’s senses were shot to hell and back as he struggled towards consciousness, but that tended to happen after a crowbar was slammed into the back of one’s head.  Fighting back nausea and dizziness, he slowly took stock of what his fuzzy senses were telling him about his surroundings—the rough brick at his back, his arms pinned behind him, the countless loops of heavy chain securely holding him upright, and…

       Castle.  Frank Castle not 10 feet in front of him.

       “’Bout time you woke up…”  The larger man closed the gap between them, kicking aside Matt’s dropped batons.  “I was starting to get worried.”

       Matt strained against his bonds, and started to open his mouth, but Castle jabbed the hooked end of his crowbar up against Matt’s chin, forcing his head up and back.

       “Shut up.  No more pretty words out of you tonight—all of your talk of morality and the higher ground means nothing to me.  The justice you want is just some naive pipe-dream.  The only justice those animals out there understand comes from a bullet, and I intend to deliver, without you getting in the way.  And you should be happy I even left you this…”  Castle tapped the crowbar lightly against the forehead of Matt’s armored cowl, making him wince.  “Or that I didn’t call the cops to come and pick you up.  I’ll be calling somebody else instead.”

       It took a moment for Matt to recognize the small shape in Castle’s free hand, and when he did, his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach—Castle had found his burner phone.  There were only two numbers on it, but Matt didn’t want the Punisher getting anywhere near either one of them.  “Dammit Castle!  Don’t do—”  Matt was silenced again, not by a crowbar (which had been dropped by this point), but by Castle smashing his hand against Matt’s mouth, slamming Matt’s head against the brick chimney in the process.  Matt twisted against this new indignity, but Castle’s large hand kept a bruising grip on Matt’s jaw, muffling Matt’s pleas completely, and even preventing him from trying to bite Castle.  Matt kept struggling as he heard the phone ring, praying that whichever number Castle had dialed, that they wouldn’t pick up, but of course, the Fates never smiled down on him like that…

       “Oh god, what stupid crap have you done now…?” came Foggy’s heavy sigh.

       Matt froze, utterly horrified.  _Oh God, nonononononono!  Not Foggy!  No!_   At the thought of Frank Castle even laying eyes on Foggy, Matt’s struggles intensified, and he almost managed to wrench his face free, but Castle leaned in, pressing most of his weight onto Matt.

       “He got in my way,” Castle rumbled.  “You can pick up your boy up on the roof of 46th and 11th.  Might want to bring a bolt cutter.”

       “What?  Bolt cutter?  Who is this?!  If you’ve hurt him, I’m gonna—”

       Castle hung up and closed the burner phone with a sharp snap, and released Matt.  “Think I’m gonna keep this…”  He waggled the phone before shoving it into one of his pockets.  “Wouldn’t hurt to have access to someone who can remind you what happens when you decide to be a pain in my ass.”

       “If you hurt him, Castle, I swear I will—”

       “Relax, Hornhead.  I have better things to do tonight than hassle one of your little club mates.  But, for now, just enjoy the view.”  Castle gave Matt a few sharp pats to the cheek before scooping up his crowbar, and then retrieved the rest of his gear.  He left, leaving Matt behind to struggle against the chains and to cry out in helpless frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For something that was published roughly a month before season 2 was dropped, and as someone who hasn't really read many comics involving The Punisher, I think I did a decent job of capturing Frank's character. I really did enjoy writing him. I should do more with him...


	4. Chapter 4  Refusal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, there are people who can't be saved. (TW: Domestic violence, bodily harm, death, unhappy ending)  
> (Originally posted to FF.net August 28, 2018, minor editing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, warnings for domestic violence, bodily harm, death, and an unhappy ending. I'm not graphic with it, but it is there, so if this is a sensitive topic for you, you've been warned. I've hopefully handled this in a way that isn't insanely offensive to anyone.

     Arguing.

     A bottle being shattered against a wall.

     Yelling. 

     The sharp smack of a palm against another’s face.

     Screaming.  Furniture being knocked over.

     Matt broke into a hard sprint across the rooftops, ducking under and scrambling over any obstacle to take the shortest path to the fight.

     Another scream, this one cut off by the dull thud that came when a fist hit flesh.  Crying.  More yelling.  More hits.  Cries of pain, sobbing, pleading-

     More glass shattering as Matt crashed through the apartment window, startling the pair and interrupting the assault.  The woman shrieked when Matt snatched the wiry man, who absolutely reeked of booze and cigarettes, off her and flung him against a near-by wall.  Matt’s devil howled in glee when the man cried out as his back collided with the closet door, the knob catching him in the kidney—he’d be pissing blood for the rest of the week.  Matt moved in and returned some of the blows the man had brought down on the woman—a right hook to the jaw, a punch to the gut, a kick to the ribs when the man went down.

     “Its easy to hit someone when they’re smaller than you…weaker than you, isn’t it?” Matt snarled as his gloved hand wrapped around the man’s throat, hauling him back up to his feet.  “Not so easy now, is it??”  The man whimpered, clawing at the iron grip holding him up.  He tried to kick, but his blows were ignored.  “If you ever do this-”

     A heavy glass tumbler shattered against the wall, barely missing Matt’s head.  Matt’s head swung around, and he refocused his senses on his attacker:  the woman.  She’d staggered to her feet and had grabbed the glass from the counter.  Standing on wobbly legs, she held one arm against her chest—Matt could hear the faint creak of a spiral fracture—and used her good arm to reach out and snag a kitchen knife.

     “Leave him alone!” she yelled, waving the blade at Matt.  The faint rattle of loose teeth and a bloodied nose accompanied her demand.

     Matt blinked.  “What??  But he-”

     “Get out!”  Frantic knife waving became stabbing as she crept closer, trying to get Matt to move away from the man.  “Leave us alone!”

     “Ma’am, he was beating you!  You have a broken arm!”

     It was like she didn’t hear him as she kept screaming at him to let her boyfriend go.  In the background, all Matt could hear were the neighbor’s TVs and radios, their speakers much louder than what would be considered normal.  _Why is no one calling the police??_   When it was clear that Matt was not going to get through to the shrieking woman, he released his grip on the boyfriend, who promptly crumpled to the floor, but not before he delivered one last threat.  The girlfriend shoved past Matt, practically draping herself over her boyfriend as she cried and tried to comfort him.

     Frustrated, furious, and utterly bewildered, Matt pulled out his burner as he retreated out the broken window and called the police.

 

 ~ - ~ - ~

 

     Matt went past that apartment the next night and found only the woman’s heartbeat there, the faint scent of a cast drifting past the gaps in the cardboard taped to the still broken window.  She was alone the following night, and the night after that, and for the rest of the week.  Ten days after the original incident and the boyfriend had seemingly not come back.  Matt felt satisfied that his message had gotten across.

 

~ - ~ - ~

 

     It was two weeks after the original incident when Matt heard that address being called over the police radio as he and Foggy were coming back from the courthouse that afternoon.

     “…repeat, responding to a possible Code 187…” 

     Matt tried to focus in on the call, but the sudden blare of a car horn cut him off and made him flinch.

     “—ode 187, female…and a possible 10-56, male…”

     Foggy yelped when Matt’s grip on his elbow suddenly tightened.  “Ow!  What was tha-”  Foggy stopped when he saw the stricken look on Matt’s suddenly pale face.  “What is it?  What happened?”

     Matt opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah...I went there.../scrubs face/...Sorry. I have no idea where this came from. I want to write more humorous pieces but my brain is all "NOPE! Write depressing stuff!"
> 
> Code 187: homicide  
> 10-56: suicide


	5. Chapter 5  Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The locals know more than they let on...

                Max Fogwell’s head jerked up at the familiar squeak of the gym’s door swinging shut.  Looking beyond his dimly lit office, out into the gym itself, he was able to pick out a familiar lean figure slowly making its way to the ring-side benches, and he frowned to himself.  _Only two days…_   Part of the old trainer had been hoping the kid would take more time off, but the other part had wanted him to show, if only to let Max confirm his suspicions.  Tilting back in his chair, Max could see how the Murdock kid’s head tilted as the chair squeaked.  _Is that how you do it?_

                “Hello?” Matt called out, gripping his cane.  “Is anyone there?”

                _I think you already know the answer to that one, kid._   Max pushed back his chair and eased himself upright.  “Don’t mind me, kid.  Just catching up on some bookkeeping.”  He made his way out of the office and into the gym.  “Could use a break though…  Get all cross-eyed starin’ at all those numbers for too long.  How’ve you been doin’?  Haven’t seen you ‘round for a while.  That practice of yours been keepin’ you busy?”

                The young man smiles and nods as he searches for a bench.  “We’re getting more clients every day.  Some can actually afford to pay us money instead of in baked goods.”  He laughs, and—there—Matt hides it well, but Max picks up on the tiny flinch and the way Matt’s body freezes for a moment when he goes to drop his bag on the bench.  “We should be able to make rent this month for a change.”

                Max looks closer and in the dim gym light, he can see Matt’s heavily scabbed over knuckles, looking like he had gone 12 rounds a few days ago, which if Max’s suspicions are correct, he had and then some.  “And how about you?  Looks like you’ve gotten a little roughed up…”

                Matt freezes as he shrugs out of his hoodie and forces himself to relax and shrugs.  “Oh, uh, a client…her ex didn’t take kindly to her accusations.  Figured the blind guy would make an easier target.  I’ll be fine.”  He leans down to unzip his bag, and there’s that flinch again.

                Max shoots him a look—for a lawyer, Matt has a terrible poker face.  “I doubt that, kid…”

                Behind his glasses, Matt blinks.  “What…?”

                _Time to put all my cards on the table…enough screwin’ around._ Max sighs heavily as he lowers himself onto the bench, “…Look, kid…Matt.  I’ve been involved in boxing for almost 60 years.  I know pretty much all the boxers in the Kitchen, and in the surrounding neighborhoods, and even a few assholes from Brooklyn, and I’ve gotten pretty good at recognizing a certain trainer’s style.  And Jack only ever trained one person: his own son.  So, imagine my surprise when video starts poppin’ up, showin’ the Kitchen’s own Daredevil laying out jerks with a vicious right uppercut that Battlin’ Jack was known for…”  Max looks up at the younger man in front of him—who looks like he’s two seconds away from rabbiting—and smiles, not caring that Matt more than likely can’t pick it up.  “What you’re doing out there…Jack would be proud of you, kiddo.  We all are.  How many kids from the Kitchen can say they’ve gone to Columbia, got a law degree, set up his own practice to help his neighborhood, and then ends up kicking the gangs out of Hell’s Kitchen, and stands with the likes of Captain America and Iron Man?  That’s something to be damn proud of.”

                A slight blush had started to creep up onto Matt’s face as he had started to relax, at least until he realized something, and then he was right back to hiding his panic.  “Wait.  We??  Who else knows?!”

                “Not countin’ me?  Just two more—couple of old boxers like me, who still remember your old man.  Few drinks down at the bar and even Sherlock Holmes’s got nuthin’ on us.  And Francine.  She’s got a good eye on her, and you can’t hide anything from her anyway, but she can keep a secret…we all can, Matt.  Though after seeing your last scrape, I had to stop Francine from finding your place so she could go all Mother Hen on you—didn’t think you’d appreciate that…”

                “…S’not that bad…only a few cracked ribs…” Matt muttered, his arm unconsciously curling protectively around his injured side.

                Max stood, pulling in a hissing breath in sympathy.  Leaning over, he zipped up Matt’s bag, slung it over his shoulder, and held out the young man’s hoodie to him, who numbly took it.  “Exactly.  Francine’s never gonna let me hear the end of it if I allow you beat up that punching bag when you should be taking a moment for yourself.  Now, come on…”  He tossed Matt’s cane at him, not surprised when he snatched it out of the air.  “Let’s head down to the bar, and us old farts can treat you to a coupla drinks while we lie through our teeth talkin’ about our glory days…”  Draping an arm around Matt’s shoulders—Matt tensed for a moment before allowing his shoulders to slump under the comfortable weight—Max started to guide Matt out of the gym.  “And then maybe you can tell us what it was like beatin’ the tar out of that Fisk asshole.”  Once outside, Max grinned, “Better yet, you tell us what that Black Widow gal is really like…”

.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They totally drink the eel...
> 
> And I posted something that wasn't depressing...wow.


End file.
